


The Intrusion

by carolinelamb



Category: American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anal Play, Fisting, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinelamb/pseuds/carolinelamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Hiddleston alone at home isn't as alone as he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Intrusion

**Author's Note:**

> So far this is unbeta'ed. Beta offers are always welcome though and will be rewarded with eternal love and gratitude!
> 
> **PLEASE DO HEED THE WARNINGS.**
> 
> ONCE MORE AS A REMINDER: RAPE FANTASY, RAPE ROLEPLAY, GRAPHIC AND NON-GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE AMONGST OTHER TRIGGERS.
> 
> ALSO BAD WRITING AND BAD TASTE GALORE.
> 
> Sorry. (Not really, but oh, well.)
> 
> * * *

He can't make it tonight, Luke texts, but then calls to tell him a few minutes later anyway. 

"The conference took more than two hours," he says, professionally suppressing any signs of annoyance. "I still have to drop by at my office and I thought all we need to do is to go through your schedule tomorrow—do you mind terribly if we do this over the phone? I fear with this traffic I might not be able to make it before seven or seven thirty."

Tom clicks out of the emails he had been reading and writing, and opens his calendar. 

"Not at all," he says. He is actually glad that Luke doesn't come by. It's been a long day, and tomorrow is going to be an even longer day.

"All right then," Luke takes a deep breath, before beginning to reiterate his list. "I'll be at your place by eight thirty, pick up will be eight forty-five, we'll first drop by at Helen for the facial at nine, then at the Grosvenor for the V shooting and interview, but by noon you should be finished. We'll have lunch with Fiona, uhm at one-thirty, also in the Grosvenor. Then you're booked for a meeting with Nelson Grant, about the property. The contract is all done and set up, so you just need to sign. I wrote a summary with the most important points and changes concerning the deed and sent it to you, but there's no need to read it, I fill you in on the car ride to their office. You need to be home by five. We'll have two suits, the Dior and the Armani ready, so choose whichever you feel is better for the evening, then you need to make three phone calls, I printed out the list and emailed it to you as well, just talking timelines with Marvel, then a short one with Ken about a BBC project, and Jameson, who want to talk to you about a campaign in Japan. We'll be picked up again at six thirty, drop by at hair and make-up and around seven thirty we should arrive at the Odeon. Sounds good so far?"

"Do I have a say?" Tom jokes absentmindedly, clicking onto every entry on his calendar, while Luke is rattling his list off.

"Could you jog my memory about Fiona again?"

"Fiona is the social media manager I told you about. I thought she'd be a good addition to our team, and you might wanna meet her. 

"Hm," Tom clicks out of his calendar, then closes it. "Tomorrow seems to be an awfully long day. Could you postpone Fiona perhaps? I'd also like to discuss the whole social media team … idea with you, when we both have a bit more time, maybe on Tuesday afternoon. I am not sure if I understand every aspect correctly and I'd rather make an informed decision."

"Well … it's not an urgent issue right now, but in half a year it might be very pressing, because ideally you'll be working far, far more than you're doing now, very likely most of your projects being in the States. We don't want to have to worry about these issues then, right?"

"I see …," Tom says, in a slightly hesitant, unconvinced tone, but nothing else. He waits for a brief second, then Luke understands, the way he always does.

"… but … you're right, hiring that team might be a bit premature. We still have April and June, and we can familiarise you with the outsourcing of your social media activities a bit later. I'll let Fiona know, and then we'll have a short break at 2.30 until 3.30, giving you time to relax a little. What do you think?"

"Perfect," Tom hums. He likes how Luke always responds, and how Tom never really has to give him orders, something he never liked to do very much anyway. "Then there isn't much left to discuss? Everything's organised, so all I need to do is to be ready at 8:30, is that correct?"

"Quite," Luke immediately replies. "Also, if you're going for your run tomorrow, avoid the river—I just saw that you ran this route three times this week and someone might catch onto that."

"Nobody is going to waylay me at five in the morning …"

"Unlikely, but then, some determined fan girls may. They're fan girls after all."

"I'll take the other course, through the park," Tom relents.

"Excellent," Luke sounds a little distracted, because he is very likely already checking and texting his other phone. "The car will arrive at four thirty."

There is a brief pause, in which Tom can hear Luke typing.

"Well, then, see you tomorrow, have a good night's rest!"

"Luke, thank you for your work. I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Especially when Tom makes Luke do things, he doesn't really like to do, he is sure, to praise him afterward, Tom's way of apologising, when he can't outright apologise.

"I'm glad, you're happy with my work. Good night."

"Good night."

After hanging up Tom debates with himself if he should have a glass of whiskey. He checks his phone: Already past six. The winter sky outside his studio window is a matte, somewhat listless dark grey. As much as he likes the morning and the night, he dislikes late afternoons. There is something about the light, a certain dullness, especially in England, that he finds slightly depressing. In the end he decides to have a small one, as he walks by the kitchen to deposit his tea mug in the sink. 

He hasn't had dinner yet, and he feels a little jittery and restless. Maybe he should eat a bite? 

The fridge is not the chaotic fridge of a man living by himself: There is lettuce, spinach, wheatgrass, chia seeds and a bag of apples, all carefully wrapped and bundled, needed for his breakfast smoothie, and several neatly labelled containers with his dinner and his lunch his housekeeper prepared before she left an hour ago, but nothing else. 

At a noise from the hallway he straightens up, closing the fridge again.

"Anne?" he calls out, but no one answers. It's an old house with wooden floor boards, and especially when it's cold and windy outside and the central heating is on, it can be a bit noisy.

Mostly he likes the noises of the house, but sometimes they can seem quite ominous; as if the house watches him, the walls have a consciousness or someone else is here, lurking in the shadows or hiding in the unused basement. (Shouldn't have watched all those korean horror movies, he thinks to himself.)

He gets a heavy tumbler from the dishwasher, then, because he still feels uneasy, races up the stairs, taking two steps at once, and enters his bed room, closing the door behind him, where he feels better, safer, selecting classical music on the iPhone connected to a speaker system: Bach is always soothing. 

He pours himself a drink which he slowly sips, enjoying the slight burn and warmth in the back of his throat.

Briefly he studies his face in the mirror above the dresser. For an actor he is not unusually vain, he thinks, but well, then again—he is an actor. Narcissistic and a little self-obsessed. In the end acting is attention seeking behaviour. And that narcissistic, vain streak that even the most modest actors possess, is also a good indicator for their inevitable immaturity. He likes to think that in being honest in this regard to himself, he won't at least fall victim to self-deception.

Know Thine Heart.

He knows that he is good-looking, beautiful even. Even as a young boy he'd been told that, but at times he'd been too self-conscious about his features, felt sometimes as if he had somewhat gained success in an unrightful and indecent way. Not unlike many beautiful women he harbours an intellectual insecurity, that his double firsts at Pembroke only managed to soothe superficially but still flares up from time to time. At least it keeps him on his toes.

In his eyes physical beauty is not a personal achievement which is why compliments on his looks make him uncomfortable: he was born with his face, his hair, his eyes, the long legs, the tall stature. He should not be ungrateful for the advantages his beauty brought him, but at the end of the day beauty is not really something he wants to take pride in. It's the privilege of youth. And it's ephemeral, a depreciating asset. With that last thought he toasts himself and finishes his whiskey, then undresses, eyeing his frame in the mirror before stepping into the bath room to have a shower. 

The mirror in the bath clouds as soon as he turns on the hot water. His showers are mostly hot and rather short these days, especially since he began working with UNICEF. He can't indulge himself in twenty-minutes showers, as he used to when he was younger, just standing under the hot water, doing nothing, knowing that in other parts of the world children are dying of thirst. 

Of course him shortening his showers to ten minutes won't save the world, a fact that bothers him more than he likes to admit, but it's at least something. The sum of many small contributions might add up to one big contribution. Or so he hopes.

Tonight he'll take longer though. 

The hot water feels only scalding for a moment, then his skin gets used to it, turning a pinkish hue. He closes his eyes, pours some gel into his right hand (the Jo Malone stuff he finds actually a bit too perfumy and effeminate, but someone keeps buying it for him) and begins to stroke his cock. 

At least his cock will smell of Lime and Tangerine, he thinks sourly. With his left hand he spreads his cheeks and rubs over the soft crinkled flesh of his hole, which immediately clenches longingly.

"Greedy," he mutters, but then chuckles to himself, rolling his eyes. To not even take himself serious while jerking off, is a very advanced stage of self-depreciative humour.

He lathers more lime-scented gel onto his hand, then caresses his balls, his middle finger scratching and pressing onto the taint.

He teases himself, (he really shouldn't shower too long though), then slowly inserts the middle finger of his left hand into his hole.

"Oh," he sighs. The angle is a little awkward and he spreads his legs, pushes his arse out, leans with his forehead against the tiles. Hot water sluices down his hair, slicks it against his head, runs over his back, around the increasingly frantic movements of his hand. He adds the index finger, relishing how his hole stretches around it, the slight pain that too soon ebbs into throbbing, pulsing pleasure.

The pleasure is steadily increasing, but at some point it reaches a plateau. 

"Come on," Tom mutters, stroking himself faster, thumbing the sensitive glans, pressing the thumb rhythmically against the frenulum. He bites his lip in concentration.

Then he becomes aware of the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

Only once, years ago when taking a screen test for a BBC programme, someone held a fake gun against his head, and it's interesting how he has never forgotten this sensation. His body reacts quite automatically to it, his brain registering the danger at once, pouring adrenaline into his system.

He whirls around, reaching blindly for the weapon but the other is faster and smacks him over the head, just behind the left ear, and with a sharp cry of pain, Tom loses his footing, slides down, with his back against the wall, his legs splayed apart.

The man standing over him is muscular and compact, dressed in black and masked, aiming, what Tom's frantic brain recognises as a Glock 17, at his face. Tom raises his hands over his head, his heart pounding wildly.

"What …" Tom has to clear his voice, "what do you want?"

The man shrugs nonchalantly and reaches over Tom's head, turning the hot water off.

"Just came here for some good old fashioned burglary, but then saw that someone's home so thought I'd say hi," the man says. He wears some sort of black mask, which only leaves his sharp gray eyes visible, looking at him with cold amusement.

Tom knows that he can't make any sudden movements. 

"Listen," he says in a soothing manner, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice. "Whatever it is you want, take it. If it is money, you're after, there is some—"

"Shut up," the man says mildly, taking a step back, then leaning against the marble counter. 

Tom snaps his mouth shut. In the following silence he can hear his own breathing, the blood rushing in his ears.

The man seems to think, then with a wave of his gun, he orders: "Continue!"

"Continue … what?" Tom is confused.

"You heard me," the man says impatiently.

"W—what?" That guy is obviously insane.

The man loses his patience, steps between Tom's naked legs with his heavy black boots and yanks his head by his wet, blond curls back, slams it against the tiles, and for a short, frightening moment Tom thinks, he might black out.

"I'll spell it out for you then, you stupid cunt," the man says roughly, "I just said, continue fucking yourself and bring yourself off."

Tom closes his eyes, then opens them slowly. His panic is increasing by the second, but he must not succumb to it.

"Listen," he tries again, "Don't do this. That's not what you're here for. That's not who you are. You're … you're better than that. I understand that you need money, that you're desperate. Just take whatever you need. You could be off with my wallet, with my notebook, my watch instead of just—"

"I know who you are," the man says. 

Tom blinks.

"You're that actor."

Tom has once seen in a film, that it's recommended to tell a criminal his name, so it won't be so easy for them to dehumanise him. 

"Yes," he says slowly, looking the other in the eye. "My name is Tom."

It's surprisingly hard to maintain eye-contact. Tom has to physically resist the urge to stare at the gun. He swallows.

The man laughs a harsh laugh, then nudges his limp, deflated cock with his boot.

Tom looks up at the man, aware that his panic is showing in his wide eyes, his blown pupils.

"Spread your fucking legs," the man suddenly barks at him, obviously losing his patience, aiming that gun at his forehead.

Tom decides to gamble.

"You won't shoot me," he says, as firmly as he can. "Not over something like this. _This_ isn't worth going to prison for."

__"You really wanna try me?"_ _

__Tom knows the man is smirking behind his mask, and he looks up into these cold eyes again._ _

__"I may go to prison, but it's unlikely. It's far more likely I just leave you with a hole in your head, and then will get away, like so many other times, like so many other thugs."_ _

__"Not thugs who shoot people in their homes," Tom argues, but his voice wavers._ _

__The man reaches into a large pocket inside his jacket and pulls out a black, tube-like object, unscrewing something from the end of the barrel, that looks like a solid metal ring._ _

__A silencer, Tom thinks with renewed panic._ _

__The man quietly screws the suppressor on, with fast methodic movements, even uses a towel to ensure it's screwed on tightly._ _

__"Have you ever used a suppressor before?" he asks casually. Tom shakes his head, then forces himself to speak._ _

__"No. I haven't," he says. "I hope I never will."_ _

__"It's louder than most people think. It also gets pretty hot after a couple of shots. And the aim isn't as good obviously but it doesn't matter from this distance."_ _

__Then he steps into the shower cabin, and crouches close to Tom, caressing his face with the suppressor. Tom feels the cool metal on his temple, his left eyelid, his cheek bones. With a quick brutal movement the man forces his mouth open, and sticks the silencer into his mouth, and Tom can't suppress a sharp inhale of panic, naked, raw fear._ _

__"That way," the man coos softly, "the bullet will leave your pretty face intact and only exit through the back of your head. They can leave the casket open, how's that?"_ _

__The man releases the grip on his chin and pushes the gun in deeper._ _

__"Suck it," he says. "Come on. You know how to do it. I bet you sucked many cocks in your life. Bet you love it, sucking fat, hard cocks."_ _

__Tom closes his eyes, shakes his head._ _

__"Come on," the man whispers, almost seductively. "What use is your pride, when you're dead?"_ _

__Tom hesitantly begins to suck, a part of him in denial of what is happening. Of what he is doing._ _

__"Look at me," the man says. "Show me what a greedy cock slut you are."_ _

__Tom makes a noise in the back of his throat, a sob, as he faces the realisation that this is truly going to happen, that there is no way out of this. He knows at some level that it's the wrong thing to do, but he can't help but plead with the man with his eyes._ _

__"Go on," the man encourages him, the steel coloured eyes narrowed to slits. "Take it a little deeper."_ _

__Tom obeys. He hollows his cheeks while flattening his tongue against the barrel._ _

__"Imagine, you want to bring that cock you're sucking, off, you want him to come inside your mouth, you want to swallow that hot come ... what do you do, huh? Do you moan and whine? Do you beg for it?"_ _

__Tom nods, feeling that this is the answer the man wants._ _

__"You're an actor," he tells himself desperately, "you can do this. Pretend it's just a role."_ _

__"Let me hear you moan," the man says, and Tom begins to moan around the metal._ _

__"Good slut," the man says. "So hungry for cock."_ _

__Finally the man slides the silencer out of his mouth, and Tom gasps for air. It's as if he's been suffocated. The black metal glistens wetly._ _

__"I can see you're an enthusiastic cock sucker," the man says, palming himself through his denims. Tom hates himself, how he looks at that bulge visible through the straining material, and immediately averts his eyes._ _

__"Don't play coy," the man laughs. "You fucking want this. I saw you fucking yourself before."_ _

__Tom only says, "Please."_ _

__The man leans closer and drags the barrel over his nipples, and Tom suppresses a panicked whine. He has to dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from begging mindlessly._ _

__In the movies he always knew the wrong thing to do was to beg for mercy, to plead with the criminal. The ones who did, always paid with their lives but this is all so irrelevant now, and when he opens his mouth again, he is horrified to hear himself say: "Please don't!" in this pathetic, weak voice._ _

__The man leans back against the sink, showing off his obscene bulge._ _

__"Now, as I told you already," the man says. "Fuck yourself."_ _

__"I can suck you off. Isn't that better?" Tom offers, not knowing why he is doing what he is doing. He just knows that somehow it's still better to suck this man off than having to debase himself in front of him._ _

__He forces himself to calm down and then to part his lips. "Let me suck you off, okay?"_ _

__The man seems to contemplate it, stroking himself through the fabric, and Tom thinks, he'll manage. It's bad, but it beats being made an accomplice in his own humiliation ..._ _

__"Knew you'd beg for cock, you whore," the man only says smugly. "Now do as I say. I wanna see you fuck yourself on your fingers."_ _

__Tom screws his eyes shut, as he spreads his legs, planting his feet onto the wet tiles._ _

"I am an actor," Tom tells himself again. "Act."

__"That's right," the man says. "Show me your hole. Spread your legs, slut."_ _

__Tom obeys._ _

__"Show me how much you love a finger up your ass."_ _

__Tom inserts his middle-finger and wriggles it, consciously avoiding … that spot. Just fucking himself perfunctorily. He feels a part of him is crumbling._ _

__"You can do better," the man says angrily, raising the gun, and Tom, nauseous with fear, begins to release a loud fake moan, beyond caring._ _

__He lets himself slide down a bit further, down the wall, until he's almost on his back, spreads his legs as far as he can, and even raises his feet up into the air._ _

__"Is this how you like it?" he asks, biting his lips. He shoves another finger into his ass, and it slips in easily, and he continues to moan._ _

__"Play with your nipples, they're fucking hard," the man says, his voice hoarse. Tom licks the fingers of his other hand and obediently pinches and pulls his nipples._ _

__At some point, the man approaches him again, and Tom can't suppress a frisson of panic. This time the man reaches down and presses his hand over the fingers Tom is fucking himself with, and now Tom can't prevent them touching and pressing against that gland he wanted to avoid. His next faked moan is swallowed by a shuddering, surprised inhale, his eyes going wide, at the merciless stimulation of that spot inside him, that man expertly guiding his fingers, applying skilled pressure._ _

__"Yes, that's right, you slut," the man hisses. "That's how you like it, huh?" Tom knows, he grins down on him, can feel the smirk behind the mask._ _

__"Doesn't it feel nice?"_ _

__When Tom doesn't reply instantly, the man slaps his face with his other hand. Dizzily Tom thinks, "Where is the gun?" but then the man pulls Tom's fingers out, and caresses the red, swollen rim. The man's grip is relentless, and Tom realises how strong this man is._ _

__The next time the man guides Tom's fingers back into his own hole, he forces him to take three fingers. Tom cries out in pain first, but then he pants and writhes, spreading his legs even further._ _

__"Knew you can do it," the man says in a humiliatingly indifferent voice. "I bet you can take two cocks at once. Bet you love it."_ _

__"Yes, yes," pants Tom, and he doesn't know anymore, if he wants to simply comply, wants to please the man, or if he means it. To his utter horror his body arches up, his legs fall wider apart._ _

__He is hard. He is fucking hard, there is no denying it, and the man looks at him in a derisive way._ _

__"Your cock is leaking," he comments._ _

__With every thrust of his own fingers against his prostate, another stringy bead of precome is welling up at the tip. His stomach is smeared with the clear fluid. He can't remember ever having been so wet before, so ready._ _

__"Now," the man says, pulling Tom out of his ever increasing bliss, "the fourth finger."_ _

__"I can't," says Tom weakly. "Please."_ _

__"Are you kidding me? Your hole is begging for it. Don't make me ask you twice."_ _

__Tom pushes in the fourth finger, but it burns._ _

__The man saunters to the sink, and opens the drawers underneath, rummaging, finds that tub of vaseline and a half empty bottle of baby oil and returns to Tom, who is eyeing him, fingers still obediently stuck in his arse and feet in the air._ _

__The man kneels between Tom's legs, then takes a large dollop of vaseline and smears it onto fingers and rim. Tom flinches at first at the cold petroleum, but then it warms, coating his fingers and his insides. His channel begins to flutter and clench as the slide of his fingers is eased by the vaseline, and he increases the speed. Closing his eyes, he hears himself moaning, vaguely ashamed of how whorish he sounds, how loud he is._ _

__The man laughs unkindly. He gathers some of the precome pooling on Tom's stomach and smears it across Tom's face, his parted lips._ _

__"Look at yourself," he taunts Tom. "You were born to be fucked like a whore."_ _

__When Tom doesn't answer, the man slaps him again._ _

__"Answer me."_ _

__"Yes," Tom wails, broken. "I was … made for this."_ _

__"Tell me what you are," the man demands._ _

__"I am a slut," Tom cries out, as the man leans forward again and presses his palm against his fingers, pushing them deeper inside._ _

__The man uncaps the baby oil, and pours a liberal amount over Tom's frantically working hand, over his thumb._ _

__"Have you ever fist-fucked yourself?" he asks Tom, who shakes his head, continuing to abuse himself, although the man has left his gun beside the sink. It doesn't matter anymore._ _

__"You'll love it," the man tells him._ _

__"Yes," Tom can barely think straight. His whole world has shrunk to his fingers buried deep in his arse, to this one nub inside that makes him shudder and clench, the more the pressure on it increases._ _

__The man takes his hand and pulls it out, pours even more oil over the long fingers. Then he peers between Tom's spread, trembling legs and squirts baby oil directly into his gaping hole. Tom flinches, and the man laughs again, enjoying Tom's humiliation. Tom feels the cold oil trickle out of his hole. He instinctively clenches, but his hole is too stretched to close itself completely._ _

__Helplessly he stares at the gray eyes, that mask. The man now takes his thumb and folds it in, then guides the hand back into his hole._ _

__"No," Tom feels panic. "It's … not possible. Please."_ _

__The man ignores him, and slowly, but firmly pushes Tom's hand into his hole. When the knuckles go through the rim, Tom thinks he'll tear apart._ _

__He screams. He starts thrashing._ _

__"Hurts!" he sobs. He feels his erection wilt. "No!" he whimpers, but the man is merciless. With his free hand he begins to stroke his cock back into hardness, and orders him in a cold voice to continue play with his nipples._ _

__Then his hole swallows his fist and closes around his wrist. The man sits back on his haunches and seems to just take in this picture, Tom lying on his back before him, fucking himself with his own fist._ _

__"If they could see you like this," the man taunts. "Your colleagues, your fans, the journalists."_ _

__After what seems an eternity, Tom is ashamed and defeated to feel himself harden again, leak more pre-come than ever, pressing his own fist deeper into himself. The angle is awkward, and Tom has to bring his knees up even more, has to curl in on himself, but the pain is dulled and every time he drives his fist into his hole, his entire body shudders and trembles._ _

__He is aware that he is shrieking, not believing himself that he is feeling what he is feeling, that intense torturous bliss, that indescribable pleasure. He is reduced to being a hot, clenching hole around his fist, and nothing more._ _

__"You're fucking close," the man says._ _

__"Yes," pants Tom, because denying it would make no sense._ _

__"Do you want a reward?" the man asks, rubbing his crotch. "If you beg for it, I'll let you suck it."_ _

__This is probably the worst idea ever, but before Tom has had time to think, he already has opened his mouth, greedily._ _

__"Yes, please," he moans. "Please. Give it to me."_ _

__The man opens his zip, and pulls his cock out. It's fucking huge. It's thick._ _

__"You want that?" the man playfully strokes his cock._ _

__"Yes," Tom says desperately, "I want to suck it. Please let me suck it."_ _

__"Oh really? Do you think you deserve such a nice dick in your mouth?"_ _

__Tom shakes his head. "No, I don't deserve it."_ _

__"And why is that?"_ _

__Tom drives his fist deeper into himself, and he bucks up, biting his lips. "Because I am a dirty cock slut."_ _

__"Right," the man hisses. He kneels over Tom's face, then slaps him with his cock._ _

__"Beg for it."_ _

__"Please let me suck your cock! I'll do anything!"_ _

__The man shoves the head of his cock into Tom's open mouth, and Tom immediately hollows his cheeks and sucks around the monstrous glans, moaning loudly. It tastes so good, Tom begins to slurp and lick shamelessly._ _

__"Look at you," the man says, pushing it in, choking Tom. Tom lets out another shriek, but lifts his head from the tiles, gagging himself on the man's cock, fervently bobbing his head up and down, all the while pleading with his eyes._ _

__"Good, huh?" the man says hoarsely. "Look how you're gagging for it."_ _

__Tom moans, then pushes that cock down his throat, until his nose is pressed against the man's pubic hair._ _

__"Fuck, yes, you slut," the man cries out, and goes into rictus. Tom's eyes widen, and a bit of the man's come is seeping out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, but the man's grip is relentless and keeps Tom's head pressed against his crotch, while his cock is pulsing into this hot wet mouth, and Tom has to swallow every drop._ _

__Then the man stands up, stands over Tom, who continues to fuck himself, bringing his knees up again, his legs spread wider, desperately driving that fist into his own body as deep as possible. Every time he manages to press against that nub he moans loudly and convulses._ _

__Within a few moments he curls into himself, his legs shivering, and he screams, while his cock, mostly untouched until now begins to twitch and jerk, then spray hot come directly onto his chest, into his open mouth and onto his face, while Tom is pushing his fist even deeper into himself._ _

__Finally his face is covered with his own spunk, dripping from his perfect cheek bones, his lips smeared with it._ _

__The man orders Tom to lick his cock clean, which he obediently does, like a kitten._ _

__Tom doesn't pull his fist out immediately. He still keeps moving it inside him, slower now, then from time to time shakes and trembles, his eyes rolling back in his head and only after his third or fourth orgasm he finally pulls it out._ _

__Satisfied the man fondles Tom's cheeks and his gaping, red hole, dripping with baby oil. Tom moans weakly, his eyes closed._ _

__"Next time," the man says, "I'll take you to my cruising spot and offer you to the men looking for cock sluts like you."_ _

__Tom only nods, still with his eyes closed._ _

__Then he opens his eyes slowly, and smiles at the man._ _

__With a tired arm he reaches out and pulls the mask off the man's face._ _

__"You're late, Renner," he says hoarsely._ _

__Jeremy shrugs, his hair tousled and face sweaty from the black mask. "Got held up at the airport, then had to pick this up."_ _

__He makes a movement with his head towards the gun resting beside the sink_ _

__Tom coughs. "I didn't think you'd come anymore."_ _

__Jeremy laughs. "Ah, I did. And you look pretty good with come on your face."_ _

__He puts a hand onto Tom's come-smeared face. A brief, very strange expression flits over his face which Tom can't decipher, but then it's gone, replaced by Jeremy's bland smirk.__

__Tom smiles. "That gun and silencer thing was new. Inspired, I must say."_ _

__Jeremy gets up and shows him the gun. "It's the best replica I've ever seen."_ _

__"Wouldn't do, to mistakenly shoot your cock slut, hm?" Tom says and yawns._ _

__"Would be a waste," Jeremy concedes with a grin._ _

__Then he looks between Tom's legs. "And was it the way you thought it would be?" he asks._ _

__Tom self-consciously laughs and tries to close his legs, but Jeremy doesn't let him._ _

__"No, please," he says, "that's fucking beautiful."_ _

__He traces the swollen, dark hole, the tender flesh with his index finger, caresses the firm, pale buttocks._ _

__"It was amazing, brilliant ... and devastating," Tom says. "It was all I thought it would be, and much, much more. I think it … shattered me. I feel quite deconstructed now."_ _

__He grins up lazily at Jeremy, who unzips his black jacket, toes off his boots and socks and snakes out of his trousers, then curls around Tom's lean, long form on the floor of the bath room._ _

__"Me too, somehow," he murmurs._ _

__Tom smiles, with his eyes closed. "Turn on the hot water again, please."_ _

__Jeremy kneels up, then reaches for the tap and turns the water on._ _

__"Splendid," Tom murmurs, slowly hoisting himself up on the tiles, grimacing in pain. Jeremy takes his arms, to support him. Tom's eyes are still lidded with post-coital haze, his movements slow, heavy._ _

__When Jeremy washes Tom, he doesn't object, only continues to smile in this lazy, sleepy way. Jeremy wrinkles his nose and sniffs the soap, then rolls his eyes._ _

__"Fancy European stuff," he mumbles._ _

__"Shut up and soap my back," Tom orders._ _

__Later Jeremy dries himself with one of the white towels in the drawers beside the sink. Tom watches him, leaning against the tiles, letting the hot water soak him._ _

__"What?" Jeremy asks._ _

__"Nothing. I'm just glad you're here."_ _

__Jeremy smiles wrily._ _

__"So am I."_ _


End file.
